


Stratagem

by iridescentmusings



Category: Mitch grassi - Fandom, Pentatonix, Scomiche - Fandom, Scott Hoying - Fandom, Superfruit
Genre: M/M, PTX, Pentatonix - Freeform, Scomiche, ace/aro troye, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentmusings/pseuds/iridescentmusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Book 1: Stratagem [Scomiche]</p><p>Set 2018-2020</p><p>They are rivals in the music industry, with a bitter history between them. However, in the face of an anti-gay rights movement gaining momentum in England, same-sex marriage needs all the positive press it can get. And so Tyler and Esther,  Mitch and Scott's respective managers, come up with a plan.</p><p>An engagement, fake of course, which will take place during the run-up to the election and the subsequent vote for/against the same-sex marriage bill. Their rivalry will only serve in their favour, the masses no doubt falling for the hate-turned-love romance, and they can break off the engagement once the bill is passed, whether it be a quiet mutual breakup or a massively angry affair. </p><p>Now all Esther and Tyler need to do is persuade them to sign the contract.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

Monday afternoon, the end of a tedious day, and two boys were sitting on the floor outside their school auditorium. Backs against the wall, knees hugged to their chests, they were the last in a long line of hopeful children auditioning for 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory', that year's musical. Mitch Grassi and Scott Hoying, aged twelve and thirteen respectively, turned every so often to glance at one another, both feeling as if they should break the tense silence. It would probably calm them both down if they started up a conversation, as it would be a welcome distraction from the imminent prospect of their auditions.

It was one of those days where a sense of relief followed midday's passing, the highest intensity of heat passing with the hour. Even so, the air was still humid, sticking to their skin like flypaper, trapping them in a spider's cocoon of damp, sweaty clothing. A wholly unpleasant sensation, that of sweat trickling from the length of the back of their necks to the base of their spines, was felt by both. Mitch rubbed at the fabric of his t-shirt, trying to wipe off the sticky droplets, to absorb them into his clothing rather than leave them on his skin.

The walls were a similar shade of red to the faded colour of Scott's canvas shoes, a fact which could only be determined by alternately staring at his feet and the plastered surface for a great length of time. He'd been there from the end of lessons, they both had, and at least an hour had passed since then. As they only had to read a paragraph of dialogue and sing a song of their choice for the audition, neither had lines to go over. In a nearby classroom, a clock ticked steadily onwards, the silence in the hallway other than muffled singing from behind the auditorium's closed door making it so that the sound carried far louder than it would among the bustling crowds of students day to day.

"Hi," Scott said after a long period of debating whether or not to do so. "Which grade are you in?" Somewhat of a strange conversation opener, but he'd never claimed that social skills were his area of expertise.

"Seventh. I suppose you're in eighth," Mitch responded good-naturedly. The other boy seemed like he must have a good singing voice, simply because of the tone at which he spoke- competition for the title role in the musical. However, he was determined not to let that show. Twelve years old, and he was already steeling himself against showing too much genuine emotion in situations when it could be detrimental to him. Mitch knew he was an incredible singer, but would it be enough against this unknown boy? Who knew; definitely not he.

"Yeah," Scott replied intelligently. "Who're you going for? I think you'd make a good Willy Wonka if you wore stilts."

"Rude!" the younger joked, "But no, I'm going for Charlie- how 'bout you?"

Scott's heart sunk. The confidence in the small boy's voice showed that he was either terrible and convinced he was the best thing since sliced bread, or the less appealing alternative; he was brilliant. Having a wild guess, he decided upon the latter.

"Hoying!" a female voice, sounding as exhausted as it did bored, called.

"Charlie," he stated, in response to the unanswered question. "That's my audition being called now."

"Good luck!" Mitch chirped, his unaffected tone thankfully not relaying the panic suddenly swirling around in his thin body. "I'm Mitch, by the way."

"Scott," the other boy offered. "Good luck to you, too; may the best man win."

With a deep breath, Scott walked into the the auditorium.

\--------------------

Friday morning, and as they knew it would be, there was a long list of names pinned to a notice board in the hallway. All were flocking to see who got which part, and Mitch's heart fell to his knees as he saw Scott surrounded by people slapping him on the back and laughing with him. Drawing nearer, he heard their congratulatory words, and getting even closer to the notice board his fears were confirmed. Next to the spot of 'Charlie' was written -in all capital letters, for some absurd reason- 'Scott HOYING'. So that was his last name. His eyes drifted down the list, going lower and lower until, somewhere in the middle of the page, he spied his name, in the same block capitals. Right next to the name 'Mike TV'.

Wonderful.

Far from what he'd aspired to, 'Mike TV' was a lesser part, and -though still a main role- it wasn't something he could even force himself to be happy about. He _was_ Charlie when he was playing him, identifying with the role and truly doing the character justice. How Scott could top that, he didn't know; he must be incredible. Jealousy bubbled unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach, and so focused was he on the unwelcome feeling that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand was placed softly on his shoulder. Scott.

"Hey," the winner of the title role greeted him. In what he thought was a comforting tone, Scott continued. "Better luck next time."

However, in a green-tinted haze, Mitch read Scott's expression as condescending. Violently, he shrugged Scott's hand from his shoulder and stormed away in a fashion only a twelve year old could. It was a miracle that he managed to hold back his tears until he reached a stall in the boy's bathroom. After that point, he found himself unable to stop for quite some time, arriving home two hours later with red rimmed eyes and a thoroughly defeated demeanor.

In his own home, Scott should have been celebrating, but instead sat on his bed, staring at the wall. He couldn't shake a strange feeling of guilt, an emotion which had clawed itself under his skin and refused point-blank to leave. It seemed impossible to wipe his mind clean from the image of Mitch Grassi's devastated face, glaring at him as he rushed away. The near-accusatory gaze in the boy's rich brown eyes haunted his dreams that night.

\--------------------

A Monday again, over a year later, and two teens walked into the first rehearsal for their high school's choir. Auditions for it had been held the previous Wednesday, with only one of them -Mitch- needing to try out, Scott having done so successfully the year before. By this point, both had reached teenager status, now aged thirteen and fourteen. Their eyes locked across the room, yet Scott's tentative smile was quelled by Mitch's glare. The girl next to him, a brunette unbeknown to Scott, asked Mitch something, her question accompanied by a curious expression. He murmured something in response and she rolled her eyes at him, saying nothing more.

Mrs MacPherson, the choir teacher, walked in at that moment, her mere presence causing the room to fall quiet. "Hello everyone, and welcome to choir," she greeted the room as a whole, walking over to the baby grand in the corner of the room as she did so. "You and you," she gestured to Scott and some other guy he didn't know, "Help me move this!" The two of them rushed over, eager to get into her good graces, and assisted her in moving the instrument to the front of the room. When done, she smiled tightly at them both before asking impatiently "Do you need anything, gentlemen, or can I start my rehearsal now?"

Mitch laughed as the two boys, Scott and Ryan, hurried back to their appropriate seats sporting identical deep blushes. He observed absently that the shade looked cute on the blond, but brushed the thought aside as quick as it had come to the forefront of his mind. After all, the small teen remembered all too well how Scott had mocked him after getting the part Mitch had tried and failed to. 'Better luck next time,' Pl- _ease_.

As the woman standing at the front of the assembly of fresh faced singers began to speak, Mitch fully snapped himself out of his thoughts, Scott taking slightly longer to do the same, yet still managing eventually. "Now, everyone," Mrs MacPherson began. "We're going to be doing an arrangement of Imogen Heap's song 'Aha!' in our fall concert, along with others. 'Aha!' is what I'm mentioning because it's this concert's solo song, and it's suitable for a soloist who is female, or a male with a very high vocal range," Both Mitch and Scott perked up at this, and Kirstie nudged her friend when their teacher mentioned 'a male with a very high vocal range'. "We've no time to spare with rehearsals, so auditions are tomorrow," Mrs MacPherson finished off, and went to sit at the piano. "Now we're going to do some vocal warm ups before working on our first ensemble piece. Repeat after me-"

\--------------------

As someone who had gained all but one solo the previous year despite his newbie status in the choir, Scott was understandably disgruntled when he discovered that Mitch had managed to get the one in 'Aha!'. It worried him, the prospect of possibly losing future solos to the other boy. As Mitch hadn't been in the school until that point, that could be the only reason Scott had been getting the parts in choir. In middle school, the title role always falls to the older of two children, as the younger will have a chance to take the role the next year. If that had been the deciding factor for Scott gaining the part of 'Charlie', rather than his musical capability, then he could say goodbye to his hopes of a career in music. Maybe he just wasn't good enough, and Mitch was there to showcase that fact. However, not wanting to be a sore loser, he went over to the short teen, intent on congratulating him.

"Well done," Scott praised Mitch as he took the seat beside him. "I'm sure your voice is perfect for this song; from what I've heard, your high notes are incredibly well-held." Scott smiled at him, trying to bridge the gap between them and offer a hand of friendship.

"Thanks," Mitch replied, his answering smile the epitome of saccharine sweetness. He couldn't see the effort that Scott was making, assuming he had ill-intentions. It really was quite childish, the way he was acting, but he was still a child, nearabouts, and the immature can never quite grasp the depth of their immaturity. "Oh, and by the way?"

"Yes?" Scott responded eagerly, glad that Mitch seemed to be making some small attempt at conversation.

"Better luck next time," the small boy gloated, using Scott's shoulder to brace himself as he pushed up off his seat and flounced away. Kirstie's loyalties, however apologetic she looked to Scott, lay with Mitch, and so she left with him, mouthing 'Sorry!' in Scott's direction. It was obvious to the blond that Mitch had never quite gotten over the loss of the title role, despite gaining the lead the following year. Perhaps it hadn't seemed like much of a victory, as there had been nobody else trying but him. He was the only good male singer in his year, Kirstie one of perhaps three female singers who were anything worth talking about. Therefore, Scott had been his only real competition. And where's the victory in winning a one-sided war?

Though Scott could understand where Mitch's behaviour was coming from, it didn't mean that he wished to -or would- tolerate it for much longer. He could see the two of them being great friends, had they met under different circumstances, and mourned the loss of a friendship that could have been; he was hardly the most popular kid in his year, his closest friend a guy called Avi who was a bass in choir. Undertaking his final year, Avi would be gone soon, and then where would Scott be in terms of friends? Nowhere, that's where. Hence, he needed to try and get closer to some people nearer to him in age. As great as Avi was, and as 'fun' as playing chess with him during lunch break was, he'd soon be gone.

Mitch was a curious entity to Scott, and one he wished to explore further, if only the other boy would let him. He realised that he'd been staring into space only when Mrs MacPherson laid a hand gently on his shoulder, reminding him that he only had five minutes to get to his next lesson. She'd always had a soft spot for him, for some reason, and was far more 'human' when speaking to him than with anyone else. Perhaps that was why he'd been given solos: bias?

"Oh, by the way, Scott," Mrs MacPherson stopped him as he was just heading through the door.

Leaning on the doorframe, he poked his head back into the room. "Yes?"

"We're doing a song entirely in French next semester, and I think it'd be perfect for your vocal range. Everyone has a different voice, Scott, and Mitch's is perfect for 'Aha!'. It doesn't make you any less of a wonderful singer, or him any better than you, him getting the solo this time. You have a lot of potential, so make sure you work on your French pronunciation. I won't tell you what the song is, however."

"Thanks, Miss," Scott replied gratefully, the self-doubting thoughts swirling around his head quelled by her encouraging words. He had to run to Math after that, as it was the other side of the school and he had all of two minutes to get there. As he passed a ninth grade English class at high-speed, he somehow managed to look through the glass pane in the door just as Mitch Grassi did the same, the distraction nearly causing him to run into a teacher. Hurriedly apologising, he continued on his way.

\--------------------

It was the next semester, and though Mitch had been absolutely incredible in the school concert, Mrs MacPherson's prediction had proven correct and Scott's voice was perfect for 'Papaoutai'. Scott had been paying close attention to pronunciation in his French lessons, resulting in his grade in the class rising from a B to an A. He would never have predicted getting as high a grade in French as he did in Music, but he was determined to keep it that way. He'd been intrigued by the idea of learning another language ever since discovering last year that one of the tenors in choir, whose name he couldn't remember for the life of him, could already speak fluent Mandarin Chinese. Scott had no idea how or why the boy was able to do so, only that he could.

Fast forward to 1pm that day, and Scott found himself standing behind Mitch in the lunch queue. He made no attempt at conversation, as the younger teen's actions had begun to affect him at last, Scott giving up on trying to make friends with the oddly distanced singer. He could sense that there must be some reason to Mitch's closedness, but had both tried and failed to get closer to him on numerous occasions. Given no reason to pursue the friendship any further, Scott had backed off entirely, not even making eye contact deliberately anymore. Sighing quietly due to his own thoughts, Scott reached for one in an assortment of brightly coloured slushies just as the girl behind him jostled forwards in an attempt to make the line move on quicker.

If his life were a movie, then the descent of the vibrant blue drink would have occurred in slow motion, Scott's mouth falling open in near-comic horror as he watched it fall. However, his mundane existence was not one deserving of the big screen, and so there was no 'slo-mo' effect on the scene. The cup fell quickly; gravity was a constant and the drink was fairly heavy, and icy liquid splashed all over the back of Mitch's plain white t-shirt. The aforementioned boy swung round at the shock of the cold stain spreading quickly across the fabric. Peering over his shoulder at the wet patch on his shirt, Mitch's gaze became accusatory and hurt as his eyes locked with Scott's. Everyone around them was laughing, some even applauding, so Mitch naturally assumed that the slushie dropping had been a deliberate act.

"I fucking hate you, Hoying!" the brunet boy choked out before rushing out of the cafeteria, laughter blooming everywhere in his wake. Kirstie, her shoulder-length hair flying out behind her as she ran after him, had clearly come to the same conclusion as Mitch, glaring at him as she left the room in pursuit of her best friend. Scott had to move past the boy's abandoned tray to move on in the line, but was considering ditching his own and rushing after Mitch to apologise. However, a hand heavily collided with his back at that moment, and he turned to see Nathan Orwell, the school quarterback, stood behind him.

"That was hilarious; you really showed that freak up," Nathan congratulated him, blinding white teeth forming an easy smile. He evidently thought that Scott had done that on purpose as well, as many seemed to be assuming. "What's your name?"

"Scott Hoying," he replied in a surprisingly calm tone for someone with a heart beating a million a minute, and blood rushing around their head in a torrent of apprehension.

"Well, 'Scott Hoying', you seem like the right kind of guy," Nathan continued, throwing an arm around his shoulder casually. Nobody was trying to push the lunch queue on, as Nathan was a great deal more formidable than a gangly beanpole of a tenth-grader. "I can tell you hate freaks just as much as the next decent sort, so why don't you come sit at our table today?"

In his heart, Scott knew that it was a bad decision, following Nathan over to the table of jocks when he should have run after Mitch, but it didn't stop him. Bad company seemed more appealing than none at all, and he definitely wasn't going to get accepted in high-school life by making friends with Mitch Grassi. He could be someone, as much as the thought stirred sickness in his gut. So he pushed aside the unease, and the sense that everything about this was _so wrong_ , and went to sit among the 'populars'. It would just be for that one day, he convinced himself. Just for the rest of lunch.

But it wasn't.

\--------------------

They were fifteen and sixteen, and hating Mitch Grassi seemed to be going well for Scott Hoying, as by that year he was the 'it guy' in his age group, the one every girl wanted, and the one every guy wished they were. He didn't allow himself to feel guilty, as feeling sorry for Grassi when you were the one throwing verbal abuse at him didn't mix too well if you wished to stay popular. Scott reasoned with himself that he'd extended a hand of friendship to the younger boy, but it had been rejected. If Mitch had just been a little nicer then Scott would be friends with him and Kirstie, not Nathan, Sam, Bryan and Paul. Admittedly, he would be a better person for it, but he would still be a bottom-feeder at the very, very base of the pyramid of social significance. Instead of the parties he found himself frequenting, he'd be sitting at home alone, perhaps on a skype call to Avi, but probably not, as the then college student had a busy schedule.

At one such party, Scott did yet another thing he'd feel forever guilty for doing. However, he only knew about what he'd done from hearsay, as he was so intoxicated that he couldn't remember a thing. As much as he wished he could bring himself to use his drunkenness as an excuse, he just couldn't. What he'd done was inexcusable, but he had to act as if his actions didn't affect him, continuing to insult the teen who he'd managed to hurt even more.

Camilla Isles was hitting on him when it happened, a bleached-blonde senior with a crush on him and inhibitions lowered even further by excessive vodka consumption. The way she was sloppily grinding on his seated body was making him feel rather ill, but he put it down to the alcohol and pretended to be having the time of his life. It didn't matter if he was leading her on, as he and his group of so-called friends lead girls on all the time, most -excluding Scott- going so far as to sleep with them and leave minutes after. They thought that Scott did the same, as he'd lie on a regular basis, girls only too happy to go along with the rumour of sleeping with Scott Hoying. By the end of that night, he could probably lie and say he'd fucked Camilla, as she may even be too wasted to remember whether he was lying or not.

He didn't know why he didn't. Sleep with girls, that is- he'd all the female attention a guy could wish for, and then some, so why didn't he bend to their entreaties? His confused brain had come up with the excuse that he was just shy around girls, though there was some other explanation nagging at the back of his mind which he kept under lock and key. Scott Hoying, every girl's wet dream and every loser's nightmare, couldn't possibly identify as anything other than 100% heterosexual. Being gay -openly- in a Texan high school was as good as signing your own death certificate. That fact made Scott's actions that night even worse.

"Didya know," Scott slurred, pausing to down another brightly coloured drink that Camilla pushed into his waiting hands. By the time he continued, all eyes were on him, none stupid enough to ignore one of the most popular guys in school while he was talking. "I s- I s-saw Mitch Grassi kissing someone the other day," he hiccuped and swallowed more alcohol. "Behind t' bleachers."

A few people shrugged and glanced away. They'd been hoping for something of interest to spread around the school in a wildfire of gossip, and as far as they were concerned at that point, they hadn't gained any new knowledge.

"W-what's excited- no that's not the word..." Camilla trailed off, giggling inanely at her drunken stupidity. "I mean," she hiccuped. "What's interesting 'bout that, Scotty?" she asked, looping her arms around his waist and plastering his neck with sloppy kisses.

He shuddered at the coat of tepid saliva she was leaving on his skin, which she misinterpreted as pleasure, grinning goofily to herself. "It was that Travis guy in our chem class," Scott elaborated, all eyes suddenly on him once more. "They were both really going for it."

"Wait, Mitch is actually gay?" Nathan spoke up from the other sofa, detaching his mouth from Polly Jaspar's to be able to. "I thought he was just kinda camp, but he's actually a fag. Wow."

"Yeah he's," Scott belched in an extremely unattractive way, but somehow that didn't deter Camilla. "De-efinitely gay."

He'd forgotten it by morning. But they hadn't.

\--------------------

The next day, Mitch knew that something in the dynamic of his status in school had changed drastically, and clearly not for the better. As soon as he walked through the front doors, he was pushed into the nearest set of lockers by a beefy football player whose name he didn't even know. "Fag," the guy spat out, the word seemingly leaving a bitter taste in his mouth from the expression of disgust upon his face as he looked down at Mitch's small, trembling form.

All of a sudden, the burly athlete was pulled away by an even taller one. "The fuck are you playing at, man?" Scott questioned, looking surprisingly angry for someone who tormented Mitch's high school life. However, he'd never physically hurt him, so that was something, Mitch supposed. "I know he's a freakish loser, Brad, but do you really need to attack him?"

"He's a fag, dude," Brad exclaimed, confused as to why Scott would stop him beating Mitch into a bloody smear on the plastic floor. "A freak of nature!"

"True," Scott agreed, looking -apologetically?- in Mitch's direction as he did so. "But getting into a fight would probably lose your spot on the team if it was unprovoked, and do you really think they'd believe that a scrawny little shit like Grassi started something with you on purpose?" Again, the ashamed look in his eyes that only Mitch seemed to be able to see.

"Yeah, I guess," Brad agreed, punching Scott in the arm as he started to walk away. "The stupid faggot isn't worth it."

Once Brad had turned the corner, Scott slumped his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Mitch."

"Wait, you're the fucker who outed me?" Mitch shot back, his eyes narrowing into a hate-filled glare.

"Yes, but I-"

A small palm collided with the skin of his cheek, stinging slightly. "You have ruined my entire high school life, you know that, right?"

"Mitch I-"

"Don't ever speak to me again, you asshole. I hope you know that I'll never forgive you for this," Mitch told him in a quiet tone which still spoke volumes. "When you realise that you're gay too -and honey my gaydar has never failed me yet- you're going to realise that you're just stirring up more resentment among people who'll eventually hate you as well. And us 'freaks' will not be there to catch you when you fall."

\--------------------

Scott and Mitch, by the time they were sixteen and seventeen, had long grown tired of their school's social hierarchy. Each day, every waking moment, Scott's stomach crawled with self-loathing due to his daily actions. He was in too deep, and knew that he'd be beaten to a pulp if he tried to back out of the group of guys who ran the school. Next year, Scott's senior year, the main four -Sam, Nathan, Paul and Bryan- would finally be gone. He'd have to wait until then to desperately try and make amends with Mitch. It wasn't 'wanting a friend' to him any more, it was needing to put things right. Mitch's torment throughout high school was Scott's fault, not his sexuality, and there wasn't a second that Scott wished that he could stop the younger teen's pain.

However, from the brother of a friend's friend of a friend, or something equally complicated, Scott managed to acquire Mitch's cellphone number; a golden opportunity to contact the other boy. The moment he did, which was thankfully during a lunch break, he went outside and headed to the bleachers, pulling his own phone from a jeans pocket as he sat down.

_Scott: Hi..._

_Mitch: who is this_

_Mitch: if this is some1 else trying to fuck with me go away_

_Scott: No, it isn't. I promise._

_Mitch: i find that hard to believe when i dont even know ur name.._

_Mitch: like srsly who is this_

_Scott: Do I have to tell you right away?_

_Mitch: yes or i will block ur number i s2g_

_Scott: It's Scott Hoying, please let me talk to you before you block me then burn your phone to get rid of me._

_Mitch: give me 1 good reason not to_

_Mitch: not that i'd burn my phone over u. like ur worth the phone i worked my ass off to buy_

_Scott: I really want to talk to you._

_Mitch: well surprise surprise i hate ur guts so i dont wanna talk to u_

_Mitch: asshole._

_Scott: Please?_

_Mitch: no_

_Mitch: it'll take much more than a bat of ur pretty blue eyes to make me willingly interact with u_

_Scott: I'm begging here. I feel like shit for the way I've treated you, and I'd really like to try and make amends._

_Mitch: just bc u have some twisted form of a conscience mixed up among ur horrible personality doesnt mean i'm gonna feel sorry 4 u_

_Mitch: besides, it's too late for that_

_Scott: What?_

_Mitch: yh, i'm moving to the UK in 2 weeks w/ kirstie. we got a scholarship to a school over there and my parents are all for me getting outta their hair._

_Scott: But don't you need to be 17 to leave home?_

_Mitch: it's like boarding school, k?_

_Mitch: I can be there w/ their permission, and once i'm 17 i legally never have to go back._

_Mitch: why am i even telling u this shit_

_Mitch: u make my life hell_

_Mitch: ur the reason i feel the need to leave the country_

_Mitch: well, part of it at least_

_Scott: I'm so fucking sorry, Mitch. Please, please meet up with me once before you go._

_Mitch: fine. but only bc i will never have to c u again after this._

_Scott: Thank you._

_Mitch: kk_

\--------------------

True to his word, Mitch was determined that he would never have to see Scott again after their encounter, and so waited until his last day in Texas before agreeing to meet up with him. Several texts were exchanged, resulting finally in them deciding to go to a diner on the very outskirts of town. It had a seedy name, 'The Idle Horsemen', and apparently an even seedier reputation, but at least that meant that nobody there would know them. As much as their high school populus liked to pretend that they were 'hard men' and 'gangsters', they'd all sooner go running crying to their mummies than actually get involved in anything shady. However, Scott and Mitch probably wouldn't be bothered by anyone, as all would be caught up in their own affairs.

Mitch didn't go to school that day, seeing no need to as he was leaving the country with the one person he would have said goodbye to, but Scott was already missing days from his record and so had to. As a result of this, they decided upon 3pm as an appropriate time to meet. All may have gone well, were it not for a few hitches in their carrying out of the plan.

During lunch break, Nathan came up to Scott, asking at once -in his usual intellectual way- "You coming to the party after school mate? It's gonna be sick."

Scott, in turn, responded. "Sorry mate but my mum's feeling a bit off today and needs me to come straight home to check on her. I can probably show up late though if you still want me to make an appearance."

"You're a fucking momma's boy, Hoying, but I get you," he thumped him on the back, nearly causing Scott to yelp at the contact. "We're cool, we're cool. Later, bro."

"Later," Scott replied with fake friendliness. He'd seriously grown to hate Nathan Orwell over the time he'd known him. The thuggish teen was one of those people with absolutely no redeeming qualities, rotten to the core, his black heart beating on all the same. Why had he ever come over to that lunch table in the first place, knowing even then that the 'populars' were not nice people? Selling your soul for three years of false happiness hardly seemed like a fair trade, and it was not a transaction that Scott had found beneficial in the slightest.

Relatively far away from Scott's conversation with Nathan, Mitch suddenly stood up, stopping his packing. He was at Kirstie's, where he'd been crashing for the past week, and he had just realised that he'd forgotten to say goodbye to Mrs MacPherson. The choir teacher with the cold exterior had helped Mitch's singing come on in leaps and bounds, going so far as to tutor both him and Kirstie privately on the three songs they submitted in their separate audition tapes for 'The Britten Institute' in Suffolk. Though that school in particular had not accepted them, the board there had forwarded Mitch's application to 'Artemis Eoin's Arts Academy'. That school, London based as opposed to one in the country, had offered both him and Kirstie full scholarships (his best friend had also applied there as soon as they heard of The Britten Institute audition board's actions).

"Kit, have you said goodbye to Mrs Mac yet?" he called through to the room opposite the Maldonado's guest one. "I was going to yesterday, but she was off at a conference,"

"I did, day before yesterday actually, but I'll come with you anyway," his brunette friend replied happily. She'd always been the more optimistic of their 'dynamic duo', smiling in the face of the steaming pile of excrement heaped upon their lives daily.

They'd been friends for seven years at that point, a friendship which began with Kirstie being the only one in their class who didn't ridicule Mitch when he waltzed into English class with hot pink nails. In lieu of taking the mickey out of him, she'd determinedly sat down next to him, complimented his nails, and then dramatically informed him that there was a lot of work to be done on his technique. By the end of the class, they'd discovered a multitude of common interests and made plans to meet up after school.

Perpetually cheerful, Kirstie was as good as high on happiness at the prospect of moving to London. She dreamed just as big as Mitch did, and yearned to make it big in the music industry. Though, by association with Mitch, she was far from popular, she didn't have to go through hell each and every day like he did. She wasn't gay, at least she didn't _think_ she was; Kirstie didn't see much point in highschool relationships which would inevitably crash and burn, so hadn't really taken notice of anyone other than Mitch and a smattering of people from choir, certainly not thinking of any of them romantically. Who knows which gender, or genders, she'd end up being attracted to when she finally let herself pay attention to her social surroundings? She'd no aversion to the thought of having a partner, but was smart enough to not pursue anyone while in high school, especially not when she was moving to England.

The two friends left the house at a jog, knowing that they only had around half an hour before school finished. "Kit, why did we just willingly partake in physical activity?" Mitch joked, out of breath, as they slowed down outside the gates.

"It was your idea, fuckwad," she jibed back, elbowing him in the ribs while walking past him into the grounds.

"Fuckwad? That's a new one,"

"I think these things up just for you, darling,"

"How quaint. Anyway, do you think Mrs Mac will be in the choir room? She usually is at this time of day," Mitch replied, moving on from their playful banter. They had gone in a side entrance, and he paused while asking her.

"Should be," Kirstie affirmed, taking the lead and striding down the appropriate corridor. Sure enough, Mrs MacPherson was in there, packing up her music sheets and clearing the general debris from around the music room. Her usually reserved demeanor was replaced by a morose expression, but her eyes lit up when Mitch and Kirstie clattered into the room, Mitch -in his usual elegant way- nearly tripping over a music stand by the door.

"Mitch, Kirstie! I thought you'd already gone for good," she greeted them, walking straight over to the two. It was clear from her facial expression that she was very happy to see her favourite students for one last time. "As I'm not going to be your teacher any more, can I get a hug before you leave? I'm so-" her voice cracked slightly, vulnerability showing through a chink in her composed exterior.

"Of course, Miss!" Kirstie replied at once, hurrying forward to wrap her slender arms around her ex-teacher. Mitch joined seconds later, and the three had a group hug that -be it slightly awkward- was still emotional. "We're going to miss you, Mrs Mac," she added as they pulled apart. "Don't let the choir get too shoddy just because your star singers are gone!" At this point, Kirstie struck a dramatic pose, flipping her hair back and staring into the non-existent distance; in the direction of a pile of cardboard boxes. It had the desired effect, as Mrs MacPherson's age-lined face stretched into a smile, blinking back her tears hurriedly.

"I'll try, Kirstie; all I can do is try," she joked back. "Although my star singers -first Kaplan, now you two- seem to be abandoning ship, I still have powerhouses like Hoying and Kevin to keep us going. I hear that some kid from another school is transferring next semester, 'Todry' something or other, and he's supposedly pretty good."

"Yeah, you don't need us!" Mitch exclaimed, patting Mrs MacPherson on the back.

"I know, Mitch," she replied, smiling. "But I am _so_ proud of you both. I can tell that London will help you realise your dreams far better than this place ever could."

"Thanks, Miss," both Mitch and Kirstie replied in unexpected unison. Surprised momentarily, they turned to one another and grinned toothily, some strange thrill at the unanticipated action reverting them to children for a split second. The moment passed, and they looked back at their teacher.

"You two must still have some packing to do; you'll be leaving tomorrow, won't you?" she enquired.

"We do, actually!" Kirstie admitted. "I'm nearly done, but this one-" she pinched Mitch's cheek mock-condescendingly, "-will likely be packing into the early hours of the morning if I don't give him a helping hand. How someone manages to make so few belongings take up so much space, I don't know."

"I'll let you get back to that, then," their teacher said with a smile, darting forward to hug both of them separately, then pulling back. "It has been an honour to teach you both to grow as singers, and I'll look out for you on billboards in the future. Go kill it, and leave now before I cry."

Determinedly stopping themselves from crying as well, the two teens, arms linked, left their choir room for the last time. "This is really it, isn't it, Kirst?" Mitch commented, his voice thick with emotion.

"It is," she confirmed, sounding quite teary herself. "Choir is the only thing I'll miss about this dump of a place."

"Not Miss Colann in Bio? You always did love her!" Mitch jibed, referring to a squat hag of a woman who was highly reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge in her teaching methods.

"Yes, of c-" Kirstie began to laughingly reply, only to be cut off by Mitch's hand clapping over her mouth suddenly. Trying to communicate her confusion with her eyes, she was rewarded with Mitch gesturing round the corner. When she peered over at whatever it was that he was pointing at so hesitantly, she was rewarded with the sight of Scott Hoying talking to Nathan Orwell. No wonder Mitch didn't want to go past the two thugs. "Why don't we just go the other way?" she murmured in a faint whisper of her usual voice, making to turn and do just that. He shook his head. "Why?" she mouthed, befuddled with his decision.

"I think they're talking about me."

\--------------------

Right after last period, Scott was accosted by Nathan as he stepped out of the classroom. "Hey dude, I just heard that Sam, Bryan and Paul are planning on beating the living shit out of that fag, Grassi, after school."

"When, today?" Scott replied 'calmly', calm on the exterior whilst hyperventilating internally.

"Tomorrow, man," Nathan elaborated. "We just need to get the fag away from the tiny bitch he hangs around with, drag him somewhere, you feel?"

"Sure, man, I'm in!" Scott replied with false enthusiasm. He knew that agreeing to beat up Mitch wasn't great, but also knew that Mitch wouldn't be around to get beaten. "Grassi needs to be taught a lesson," he continued, deciding that he might as well go all the way with his false hatred. "I'm all for being the teacher."

Just metres away, Mitch was unpleasantly shocked.

_"-planning on beating the living shit out of that fag, Grassi, after school,"_

_"today,"_

_"We just need to get the fag away from the tiny bitch he hangs around with, drag him somewhere,"_

_"Grassi needs to be taught a lesson,"_

He could only hear snippets of their conversation, but it was enough for him to come to an altogether unwelcome conclusion; the sorrow Scott had so efficiently portrayed was naught but an act. He'd obviously just been intent on luring Mitch away from Kirstie and punching him into unrecognisable pulp. Relieved that he'd managed to avoid that, Mitch pulled his friend away by the hand, heading swiftly in the opposite direction and vacating the school grounds as fast as possible.

\--------------------

Scott arrived at the diner slightly -ten minutes- late and at a run, expecting to see an impatient Mitch Grassi sitting in one of the booths. When he, after scanning the entire room hurriedly, saw no trace of the small teen, he opted for heading to the counter to enquire about him. His question, "Have you seen a guy about-", was cut off by the surly female owner.

"Are you Scott Hoying?" she grumbled, and on his nod continued: "Some kid, about yay high," They gestured to show an approximate height, "came in about two hours ago and asked me tell you that he wasn't going to show."

Right. So Mitch had completely disregarded his attempts to make amends and was leaving the country without giving him a chance to explain himself. Desperately hoping that it was all some big misunderstanding, he tried texting him; perhaps there was some kind of personal reason he couldn't show that Mitch didn't feel comfortable telling the woman.

_Scott: Hi, where are you?_

However, he was greeted with a message not from Mitch, but from whichever service it was that he used.

_This user has blocked your number._


	2. One.

One.

[Scott]

I still think of him, sometimes. The boy I once wished that I could know. Perhaps it's a consequence of tension still unresolved between us. He's everywhere, his face, expression alluring, plastered across billboards all over LA. Then again, so am I; the instances when our album or product advertisements are situated next to each other are the closest we ever are any more. I haven't seen Mitch in person since he left to go to England.

It's not as if he left me wondering what I did wrong; I did everything and then some to the poor kid: tormented him, outed him, made his life a living hell. Just about the only thing that I _didn't_ do was physically harm him. And yet, I put myself on the chopping block before him, preaching my remorse, and thought that he would listen. He didn't, however. Instead, he left me alone on that chopping block, left the blade to fall on my prone form.

He's grown up well, I'll give him that. His skinny figure has grown and matured into a slender physique, his bowlish haircut evolved into a long fringe with shaven sides. Though his vocabulary has now become somewhat British, his accent hasn't changed much at all, still irrefutably Texan. My thoughts drift to Mitch Grassi more often than sometimes, if I'm entirely honest with myself. Usually it's when I'm left alone with my thoughts, as that's when I turn to reflection, and such reflection leads to him. Truthfully, I'm angry at him still, angry at the way he raised my hopes up before merely smashing them down from a greater height.

Mrs MacPherson was right when she told some of us in choir that we would go far in life. Mitch and Kirstin are famous for both their solo work and their numerous collaborations with one another. I, though having to start out as a model to make ends meet while working on my first EP, still 'made it'. My work skyrocketed to success with not the EP, but with my debut album, self-produced 'Laurel'. The title track went viral, followed soon enough by the album as a whole.

To add to my moment of reminiscence, I switch on the aforementioned album, skipping past 'Haze' and 'Flint' to get to 'Laurel'.

_"I'm alone and it's 2am again,_

_Rain spirals down in a symphony of thunder._

_Staring into space is hardly teenage dreams,_

_But emptiness leads me to wonder."_

I'm stuck in 7am traffic, wherein everyone living in LA wants and/or needs to be somewhere, yet the influx of automobiles on soon-crowded roads means that the world slows down for those anxious to live life in fast-forward. Personally, I'm en route to a meeting with my manager, Esther. She's Avi's sister, and so naturally when the opportunity to manage me arose, she took it. My commercial success can be attributed largely to her brilliant marketing skills; I've never had a reason to doubt her. The meeting we're having this morning is somewhat informal in that it's 'casual', as she said on the phone, and at a coffee shop. However, I could tell from the undertone of anxiety in her voice when she called that she seems to find whatever it is she has to talk about with me extremely important. This is proven further by the fact she's now calling me, my phone vibrating against my thigh like the buzz of an insect. Turning off my music and picking it up, I greet her calmly with a "Hey, Es."

"Scott where are you?"

"I'm stuck in traffic, babe," I replied, my tone nonchalant whilst I internally overthink everything that the meeting could be about. "It's a massive blockage; I could be here a while."

"Right. Okay. This is pretty important, I could-"

"Esther no."

"You don't even know what I was going to suggest!" she protests in reply, though we both know I do.

"Well let me take a wild, uneducated guess. You were going to try leaking my location so that the police would have to come and escort me out of traffic." I respond, exasperated.

"Yes, but-"

"No. I am a normal human being and I don't deserve special treatment just to get out of traffic, Esther." I hear her sigh on the other end of the phone, resigning herself to the fact that I'm not caving to her suggestion.

"Fine, fine! Text me when you're close, then," she reluctantly gives in. Esther finds it odd that I don't pick all the easy options presented to me as a celebrity, whereas I'm equally confused as to why I'd want to compromise what little normality I have left. As someone in the public eye most days of the week, and most hours of said days, I appreciate these small moments where I'm just like anyone else. Being pulled out of traffic so that I can get to a meeting quickly would go against the morals I've formed over the past few years regarding my famous status.

"Bye, Es!" I close the conversation, shutting off the call. In front of me, through my windshield, I can see a long line of cars stretching off into the distance. Thankfully, my exit is about a mile away so I don't have to get through the entire queue of automobiles. Despite this, however, I'll still be stuck here for an unspecifiable amount of time. Choosing to switch the radio on to pass the time with music, I flick to a 'pop'-type station, smiling subconsciously as I hear a vaguely familiar tune come on. My smile is just due to the slight familiarity, as I've no clue what this song is yet.

The track has obviously only just come on, as the lyrics are yet to be sung, a wordless tune beautifully coming through my car's expensive speakers. I know the voice so well, yet can't quite place it until they begin to sing actual words. I'd assumed it was a female singer, as the pitch is incredibly high for a male vocal range, but it's not.

Mitch Grassi.

The guy who I love to hate, who I've not seen for a good five years. You wouldn't expect so many people from the same small high school to "make it" in an industry which is predominantly "break it". It was a whole lot of talent -though that may just sound a whole lot like bragging on my part- in one tiny choral program. Mitch, Kirstin and I have all become massive successes in the 'pop' music scene, whereas Kevin is gathering a crowd of admirers online due to 'celloboxing' videos. Todrick, or 'Todry' as Mrs MacPherson deigned to call him, is working on his second musical, and Avi, at first through association with me, has a fairly large fanbase. He's performed with me at several concerts, his bass a great contrast to my baritone. Consequently, it's now fairly easy for him to get gigs. Of course, I'm not saying that he only gets appearances due to being "Scott Hoying's friend"; he's incredibly talented and deserves every concert he performs at.

See Through, the song of Mitch's on the radio, comes to a close. As if on a rather strange form of cue, the traffic slowly begins to creep forward. Though it's still at a painstaking pace, anything's better than absolute standstill. It's some kindly act of fate, as I'd expected my life to be at an enforced stop for another hour, at the very least. "Thank Beyoncé." I mutter to myself in an undertone, realising seconds later that I seem to have become one of the annoying gays who literally speak of 'The Queen B' like some religious figure. My fans would drag me so hard if they could hear me now, now so thank B- _God_ that my car is checked bi-weekly for bugs. It'd be just my luck to have my car tapped and all my conversations published in the press. I'm exactly the kind of person that that kind of crap would happen to.

Twenty minutes follow, filled with continual stopping and starting, starting and stopping. Eventually, at long _long_ last, I'm out of traffic- the congested part of it, at least. After pausing briefly by the roadside to send Esther a text reading: _'omw, b there in 10'_ , I set off to my destination.

Upon arriving, I'm greeted at once by a cheery old woman who I know by both name and face, she the same for me. She's Mrs Phillips, the round-faced, rosy-cheeked owner of "Phillips' coffee house", and knows all about my celebrity status. At first entirely oblivious, she was exposed to my fame when a leak of my location lead to her small shop being packed with around 150 screeching teens, a further 100 or so surrounding the premises. The owner herself was the accidental leaker of my whereabouts, as I'd helped her set up a twitter for the shop, and she'd posted a candid shot of a customer -me-, causing the teenage rampage.

"Hello there, Mr Scott," she welcomes me warmly. Somehow, she thinks that substituting my first name for my last will somehow increase my anonymity and reduce chances of another flash mob. I haven't the heart to tell her that it won't help at all. "No young ladies here to smash and ruin my good china today, then?"

With a laugh at her gentle jibe, I reply "Not today, with a bit of luck, Mrs P," Catching sight of Esther in the corner of the tiny coffee shop, I excuse myself. "I'll have an Americano today, please," I request, then as an afterthought, "Large."

Once I reach Esther's table, she doesn't even wait for my ass to hit the seat before launching into speech. "Scott, we're leaving for London in two days."

"Huh?" I reply, sounding extremely intelligent, I must add. "Why would we be doing that?"

"Not would, _will-_ the flights are booked," she corrects at once. "And as to why, you'll find out when we get there. I'm not going to risk you kicking up a fuss and refusing to leave the country."

"I really don't like the sound of that, Es," I respond. It's entirely true; upping and flying to England for unknown reasons, a country which is becoming more and more prejudiced by the day, is hardly something to tick off my bucket list. Although she's my manager, Esther is also one of my best friends, hence she hardly ever leaves me in the dark about business decisions. I hate to think about what could be major enough for her to stay mute. Despite my worry, I attempt to come to some logical conclusion, but fall short. Nothing I can think of can explain both the sudden trip to England and Esther's silence.

All she says in reply is "I didn't expect you would. Get packing; we're in the recording studio all day tomorrow, so you have the rest of today to pack. The plane leaves day after tomorrow at 5:15am,"

"Seriously, Es?" I whine, not caring that I've seemingly adopted the petulant mannerisms of a three year old child denied sweets. "But I was gonna-"

"I don't give a flying fuck what you have planned, Scott!" she cuts in, and only now do I notice the stress ticking behind her gaze. "This thing is big, _really_ big. Brilliant for both our business and our public image, and on top of all that it's a genuinely _good_ thing. I'm not telling you any more than that right now, so be off with you and start figuring out how many ridiculous snapbacks it's possible for one human to fit into a single suitcase. You'll set some kind of record, I'm sure."

"Fine," I sigh, giving in, looking up to see that Mrs Phillips has just arrived at our table and so adding. "Can I take the coffee to go, Mrs P?"

She nods demurely, pottering back to the counter and pouring my mug into a disposable cup, calling out "Bye then, Mr Scott!"as I exit the shop, the old lady ever eager to use her oh-so-ingenious nickname for me. In lieu of a vocal response, I nod in her direction before turning the corner, my car then in sight and my mind swamped with thoughts. Resisting the urge to kick something in frustration, I dial a number, relieved when the person on the other end of the line picks up after just a few seconds.

"Hey there, boy toy Troyeboy!" I laugh down the phone, giggling even more -in an entirely manly way- as I hear his exasperated, yet fond, sigh.

"You and I both know that I'm not on a fast track to become anyone's 'boy toy', Scotty," he retorts; Troye's both asexual and aromantic, but we both amuse ourselves with the sheer amount of advances he has to turn down daily. Not remotely 'cold hearted', as some would assume due to his orientations, he's one of the funniest guys I know, snarky and sarcastic but still a loving friend. Hardly a 'robot'. "To what do I owe this _sublime_ pleasure?"

"I thought I'd give my favourite London-dweller fair warning."

"Go on..." he prompts, proving his interest peaked.

"I'm 'crossing the pond' soon." I elaborate.

"When?" he enquires at once, sounding excited at the prospect. We've not seen each other face-to-face in a fair few months, and both miss one another.

Sounding somewhat sheepish, though the suddenness is in no way my fault, I inform him of the date. "Day after tomorrow."

"Why? And why didn't you tell me this earlier, Hoying? I love you dearly but I now have a schedule to clear, you ass!" he groans, and I can just picture him pulling up his calendar on an iPad as we speak, preparing to start freeing up his time.

"I found out all of ten minutes ago, Troye. Find your chill." I explain. He was the first person I thought to call, as he's one of three close friends I've managed to accumulate. Esther -for obvious reasons- already knows, and I doubt that she's failed to inform her brother. Avi will probably be coming along with us, due to us two being the only people he hangs out with as well. Actually, no- I think he's kept some form of contact with Kevin Olusola from choir. However, he now lives over there, much like Mitch and Kirstin do, so that's just one more incentive.

It's strange, how most people somehow seem to need to live in London or LA to fulfill their dreams.

"I guess you're excused then," he relents, "If you had no prior knowledge I can hardly blame you. What're you doing over here?"

"I have literally no idea!" I burst out, glad of the excuse to vent. "Es won't tell me a thing, so I'm going into all this blind. I think it must be something major, though."

"Why?"

"She literally _never_ keeps stuff from me, Troye."

"Well, I'm sure we can talk about whatever this turns out to be in person, but I have a photoshoot to get to in ten minutes and I already know I'll be late because of traffic. Speak later?" he asks, and I nod, then realise that he can't see him and physically facepalm. "What was that slapping sound?" Troye enquires, but I choose to keep him in the dark about my stupidity.

"Bumped my leg on the car. See you soon!"

"Yep, soon it is! Bye!" He ends the call, and I put my phone back into my front jeans pocket, left alone to overthink every possibility about the not-so-distant, yet unknown, future ahead of me. From somewhere, somehow, I feel a premonition that this has only just begun.


	3. Two.

Two.

[Mitch]

All around me, there's a mass of sweating people, young, delirious in their state of drunken immortality. For a split second, less than that, even, time feels frozen. A sea of upturned faces look to the ceiling, the barrier between them and the night sky, washed green by a flash of the club's lights which flick off to another colour, a different direction, as the moment ends. Kirstie has just jostled into me, pulling Jeremy by the hand. She asks me something that proves imperceptible to ears overrun by the resonant bass beat of whichever song is currently playing, so I shake my head to indicate that. Here hands then land on my right shoulder, fingers gripping at my shirt as she uses me as leverage to aid the elevated position of her on her tiptoes.

"We're going h-home now!" she hiccups. "Jeremy's still sober, so he can drive u-us," I scrutinise Jeremy's well-kempt appearance, seeing from his facial expression that he appears to be under the alcohol limit. "Do y-you want to come with- with us n-now or get a cab later?"

"I'll stay for now, Kit," I decide, and she totters away, her boyfriend guiding her through the crowd of gyrating youths with a steadying hand on the small of her back. Part of me staying is down to just wanting to party on for another couple of hours or so, but I've also just spied a tall, slim guy sitting at the bar. He's tapping his as if waiting for someone or something, which makes me wonder as to what or whom he's waiting for- I'm intrigued by him.

"Hi there, stranger," I greet him with a smile upon reaching the bar -quite a feat as I've had to battle my way through an inordinate amount of dry humping-, sliding onto the seat next to him and making eye contact with the bartender so she'll come over when she's done with the orders she's carrying out. "Can I order you a drink? It's on me,"

He's undeniably attractive, with a sort of runway model look going for him, and it's kind of cute the way he immediately appears flustered. His hands cease drumming on the bar to let his long fingers fall to fumble awkwardly in his lap. "I-" he starts to say, then stumbles a bit over the next few words before finally getting them out. "I, um, well- I mean," a pause follows, then he stutters on. "T-that would be great, thank you, but I think I should pre-warn you that I'm not looking to... _do_ anything."

When he's finished with his nervous ramble, I hurry to apologise, sorry for making him uncomfortable. "That's fine! Sorry if I'm- if you have a boyfriend already. I'm happy to get you a drink in a purely platonic way."

"It's not that you're- I mean, that _I-_ " his voice beings to peter away again, but he's saved by another person who stops and stands behind them. Whoever it is, their face is obscured from me due to the placement of the club's lighting.

"He's asexual," they state, and the guy looks relieved that someone else -his brother, friend, sister with an adam's apple?- has said it for him. "Wait a minute, are you- no..." they continue, trailing off. Evidently they recognise me; it's a miracle that that they're the first to do so tonight. Normally I get a great deal of people excitedly approaching me.

"Am I what?" I enquire, amused still by how people always seem to be to see me. I'm hardly the eighth wonder of the world, just a singer from Texas. An amazing singer, true, but still just a singer.

"Mitch." they respond, and I've only a miniscule amount of time to be surprised that they don't refer to me as 'Mitch Grassi' -as is the norm when meeting fans-, as they step forward into the light. It's now my turn to be shocked as I recognise _his_ face at once.

"Scott Hoying?" I say, my tone twisting the words into a question though he and I both know that we have no doubts about each other's identities. He nods, looking slightly apprehensive. With good reason, I suppose; there's hardly a wonderful history between us.

"Nice to see you still remember me, Grassi." he chuckles lowly, looking everywhere but at me.

Troye seems to be able to sense the tension between us, which you'd hardly have to be psychic to notice. With a quietly spoken "I'm gonna head off now, Scott," to his friend, he walks away.

Scott doesn't have time enough to respond before Troye is swallowed up by the crowd, so instead turns to me. "Just us then, I guess," he points out, seeming to feel a need to state the obvious. "Funny how that happens."

A pregnant pause follows, neither of us speaking but both obviously considering it. I'm about to break the silence, but the bartender picks that moment to make her appearance. "What can I get you m-" she pauses, and I can sense her dilemma; it's evident that the poor girl recognises me, but it seems too familiar to call me 'Mitch', too formal to call me 'Mr Grassi', and yet she doesn't want to pretend that she's ignorant to pop culture. Though I made eye contact with her earlier, it seems that she couldn't make out my face in the dark at the time. You'd think that she would have seen celebrities aplenty, bartending at a high end club in London. Either she's new, or I'm a particular favourite of hers. I myself remember being very starstruck upon meeting Ellen DeGeneres.

"Hi, I'm Mitch," I cut in, throwing her a lifeline. "Vodka tonic, please."

"And can I have the same?" Scott asks in addition to my order. She lets out a shocked gasp as she turns to him- she'd been paying such complete attention to the celebrity at the bar that she hadn't seen the other one until now. The difference in her reaction to Scott compared to me is gargantuan- instead of pleased surprise, her eyes narrow and she nods sharply before heading away to get our drinks.

The two of us stay completely silent until our drinks are placed before us, I choosing to wait for both of us to have taken a sip of our respective drinks before speaking. I'm stalling, both of us know very well that I am, but there's an undeniable amount of awkward near-animosity thick in the air between us. It feels like some massive task to undergo, taking that first step and breaching the gap. However, one of us needs to, and I'm feeling brave.

"It's a bit surreal, sitting here talking to someone who I hate," I admit. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again after I moved, and after you made it big as well as me, I at least didn't expect to see you asides from afar if we happened to be performing at the same event.

"And yet here we are," he states. "Believe me, I'd have been equally happy to see neither hide nor hair of you ever again, Grassi."

"Charming," I respond, placing my hand over my heart as if I'm deeply touched by his words and pairing it with an eye roll in his direction. "What are you even doing across the pond, anyway?"

"That's the thing. I don't even know," he replies, a surprising undertone of honesty to his words. "Es -my manager- won't tell me shit."

"I know the feeling," I sympathise. "Mine -Tyler- is keeping something big from me as well. Maybe both things are connected. A prank or something- shock the celebrities and attract a massive pool of viewers.

"Perhaps," he agrees. "I'll ask around some of my other friends- just friends, that is. Of course we're not- you're not my friend."

"Of course not," I agree easily.

"And I'll see if they've got management keeping something from them," he finishes. I nod appreciatively, as I want in on whatever the fuck it is that Tyler is keeping from me. My manager, who's actually famous in his own right due to his notorious array of hair colours, seems to be taking great pleasure in annoying me with the secret project he's keeping from me. However, he's also clearly worried and constantly preoccupied with something. If that something is in any way related to me, I'd quite like to know what Ty is getting me into.

Absentmindedly, I check Twitter on my phone. For some reason..."Scott, did you know that you're trending on Twitter?" I ask.

"Oh, am I?" he responds, looking perplexed as to why he would be. Then, suddenly, a light seems to flick on behind his blue eyes, a moment of realisation. "Wait, no- don't look at that!"

It's too late for the warning, which I would no doubt have ignored anyway. I can see at once why he didn't want _me_ of all people to see the reason behind his trending state on Twitter. A news article is the first thing to show up on my feed, and though of course it isn't shown in it's entirety, the headline is part of the preview.

"Pop superstar Scott Hoying yells homophobic slur at crowd of reporters."

My shocked gaze flickers up to his, and it seems that he's trying to stammer something out. An apology, an explanation for his actions; I don't know. I'm certainly not going to stick around to find out, as in my opinion he's not deserving of the time it'd take for me to listen to him any longer. I don't even register my own hand raising up, nor my legs straightening up as I stand, until I feel my palm colliding with his cheek, a considerable amount of force behind it. "Wait!" he calls after me, sounding desperate for some reason as I storm away. I'm already lost to him in the crowd.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

"Why did you even talk to him in the first place?" my best friend and flatmate asks. I'm more than grateful that she has dragged herself out of bed to talk to me, seeing as her hangover must be monumentally bad. Hers always seem to be. She's not one to stop at just one drink, is Kirstie. Jeremy must have dropped her off here last night, probably waiting for her to fall asleep before he left. They've only been dating officially for a few weeks, but I can already tell that he's an absolute sweetheart; he has been thus far, at least, always the perfect gentleman.

"I don't know," I respond after a long pause following her query. "Perhaps I hoped he would have grown up somehow."

"Hoying is an ass, Mitchie," she says. It's a phrase familiar to both of our lips. "He was going to beat you up on the day that we left for the UK, just because you're gay. We heard him and that dude planning it, remember?"

"I know- how could I forget?" I sigh, knowing very well that her words are true. "But he seemed nicer at first. Guess it goes to show that I shouldn't be so eager to see good where there's none."

"There's always been bad blood between the two of you," Kirstie points out. "I think that subconsciously you just want to resolve it so that you can finally move on from that part of your life,"

"I suppose that makes sense," I shift on my seat, growing weary of the conversation. "But it's been years and he's still just as much of a poor excuse for a human being as he ever was. Someone in his position can cause a lot of damage with their bigoted influence- who knows how many closeted fans of his he's just made less likely to come out? Ex-fans now, I suppose. Maybe I was wrong about him when I thought he was gay. He's seeming more and more like a plain old homophobe as the years go by."

\---------

I receive a text at two in the morning from Tyler, informing me that I have a meeting tomorrow which I cannot miss, no matter what. He only does this when it's something I'm not going to like in the slightest; early AM texts mean that I haven't got the time or energy to do any research on what the meeting's subject might be, or to try and cancel.

Whatever this is, I can only hope that Scott Hoying isn't involved in any way, shape or form.

 


	4. Three.

Three.

[Scott]

_I should have realised what the gaggle of unpleasant teenage boys were trying to do when they accosted me outside my hotel, yelling the word "Fag!" over and over and over again, but I was too distracted by the mass of reporters shoving at me with their cameras and microphones hoping for a statement. A snippet of gossip would be enough to keep their deadbeat magazines on the shelves for another week or so. I hadn't been paired up with my English security representative yet, having only just arrived in the country the night before, and so I was on my own. I snapped on around the hundredth screech of the vile word from the greasy teens with their slicked back hair and hateful eyes._

_"Stop calling me that, for fucks sake!" I yelled back at them. They looked shocked; perhaps they hadn't expected me to notice._

_"Calling you what?" one boy questioned, cockily stepping forward with an oily grin on his spotty face._

_"Fag!" I clarified, not sure why I was doing so as they must all know which word they'd been shouting at me for the last five minutes, but so frustrated with the situation that I just didn't think._

_I finally managed to get away from them all and into a taxi, where the driver turned to ask "Where to?" and smiled with a look of pleasant surprise as he clearly recognised me. "Scott Hoying? My son Lucien adores you, posters plastered all over his walls and ceiling, the whole works."_

_"That's very flattering," I replied with an easy smile, already calming down from the ordeal. It's my go-to response when I find out people have papered their room with my face, which is cute in a vaguely creepy sort of way. "Eastbourne Cafe, if you will?"_

_The man began to drive, still chatting away. "Him and his beau Joshua are going to see a concert of yours soon. They're both big fans, actually, though Lucien certainly takes the cake with his level of obsession"._

_After a few minutes of silence, I heard a phone ring. I definitely don't have the default Nokia ringtone, so I correctly assumed it was the driver's._

_"Mind if I take this? He doesn't normally ring me during work hours- I'll pause the meter." the driver asked me and I nodded, happy to let him do so._

_"Lucien, what's wrong?"_

_A pause followed while presumably Lucien spoke on the other end of the line._

_"Lucien slow down, you're not making any sense,"_

_Another pause._

_"What, he said what? No, are you sure you're not mistaken? I thought you told me- no, okay. I'll be home soon."_

_The driver turned around, smile gone from his no longer friendly face. "Get out of my taxi. I won't charge you, don't you worry your million-dollar head over it."_

_"W-what?" I stammered, confused at the sudden change in mood._

_"How can you sit there smiling as I tell you anecdotes about my son- my gay son! You disgust me, Mr Hoying. Now get out of the cab."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm sure there's been some kind of-"_

_"Out. Now."_

_I got out, and he sped away._

_Checking twitter almost instinctively, I saw my name trending. Odd. Clicking on the tag, I looked in horror at the the first news story that came up, posted 'three minutes ago'._

_"Pop superstar Scott Hoying yells homophobic slur at crowd of reporters."_

_A video was attached from outside the hotel. Three seconds long, it was merely a clip of me yelling "Fag!" with no context. It didn't take a genius to guess how that would be interpreted._

Cut to now and I'm standing alone in a club watching Mitch Grassi run away from me. Yet another time I'd hoped to make amends but life fucked me over once more.

\------

It's 8am and I wake up to Esther poking my face repeatedly, sadly not an uncommon event.

"Didn't know I'd ordered an annoying human alarm clock with room service," I grumble, and she scoffs at me.

"I hope you have a pretty fucking good excuse for the current headlines, Hoying."

"Oh, trust me- I do," I reply, yanked unwelcomely from the grogginess of having just woken up at the reminder of yesterday's events. With an appropriate accompanying scowl, I relate my side of the story in its entirety, right back to the cab driver kicking me out and driving off without me.

Outside the window of my hotel room, a magpie sits perched on the balcony rail. Its beady little eyes don't budge from me as I tell Esther everything, and when I look back up afterwards it is still there. They really are very pretty, but their backstory negates their simple beauty. Their presence is viewed as a plague because they destroy the ecosystem around them. They're intelligent, and I feel as if this one is staring right through me.

"Scott? Scott!" I hear Esther calling, and realise that I've zoned out as I stare out of the window. My head jerks upwards, and at my movement the magpie flies away in a flurry of black and white. I can't help but watch it fly away.

"Yes?" I enquire, hopefully looking apologetic as I obviously can't see my own expression.

"I asked if you'll be ready to leave in thirty minutes," she explains, rolling her eyes. "You've evidently either forgotten to set an alarm or slept through at least five- your meeting is in forty-five minutes and we need to allow for London's inevitable traffic."

"That's pushing it, Es, but I can probably manage if you leave right now," I respond, beginning to pull my shirt off to reiterate the fact that I need to start getting in and out of the shower.

"Okay, okay!" she laughs, holding both hands up defensively. "No need to get naked until I'm out of the room, thank you very much,"

Esther hurries out of my hotel door, shutting it behind her and I head into the bathroom to take a shower in record time.

\---------

Thirty minutes later and I'm, remarkable as that is, ready to go. I'd never known I could do my hair so quickly under pressure. Esther is waiting outside the lift doors when they open with a burly man who I assume is my new security representative, causing me to start slightly, but I get over the shock without her noticing; she'd have teased me for hours otherwise.

Or perhaps not? She looks incredibly stressed, which is doing nothing to help my own increasing levels of panic regarding this mysterious meeting. I've never been kept out of the loop to this extent, being literally flown to another country at a moment's notice with no explanation whatsoever. I've wracked my brain time and time again over the past few days, yet come up with nothing that could warrant all of this.

We step outside, and I'm thankful that the location of the hotel we've moved to since yesterday's incident has not yet been leaked, a fact which is clear due to the distinct lack of swarming reporters. My security guard introduces himself as Euan.

"Planning on telling me what we're going to be discussing in the meeting any time soon, Esther?" I question, not expecting her to.

"Yes," she replies, shocking me until she follows it up with a glance at her wristwatch and "In approximately thirteen minutes, traffic permitting."

I sigh. "You're insufferable,"

"You'll be calling me a lot worse soon enough," she mutters. I'm not sure if she meant me to hear that, so I bite back a confused response. "Here, please," she directs our driver roughly ten minutes later, and he pulls up beside a non-descript looking office building. After Esther pays our fare and then some as a tip, I finally get out of the cramped little cab which is really far too small for someone of my stature.

We walk into the lobby, and I'm not surprised at the dreary interior, less than a contrast to the grey bricks outside. Euan goes to guide me but halts at the lack of a crowd. It's automatic, I understand, and I smile at him before he can try to apologise.

He smiles back at me and I'm glad that he isn't the emotionless hunk of muscle that I found in Derrick, my security guard back in the US who quit a couple of days before we came over here. That's suspicious timing if I think back on it, yet I've no time to do so as Esther is already leading us to the front desk.

"Kaplan and Hoying?" Esther asks of the receptionist, who smiles prettily at me, her expression flirtatious. I force a smile and look away, seeing her face fall as I do so, her efforts rejected. It's nothing against her, but she's just not... male.

"Kaplan and Hoying? Yes, I've got you down in five minutes. A meeting in room 207 with-" Esther cuts her off.

"Yes, we'll make our way there," She tells 'Janice', as her name badge tells me. Janice gives me one more hopeful smile.

We walk away.

"That receptionist seemed very into you," Euan chuckles as the elevator begins its ascent. "I assume you're either taken or not that way inclined."

"The latter," Esther clarifies. "Though he's refused thus far to let his hordes of screaming teenage fans know that they have even less of a chance than they may otherwise have assumed."

"Yeah." I add eloquently. The elevator's disembodied female voice informs us that we're on the right floor, the doors opening with a mechanical creak onto a long corridor bedecked in monochrome colours. From within the nearest room, '206', I hear voices. Of the two, one halts and then excuses him or herself.The door opens and I learn that the voice was male- a man around a foot shorter than myself with electric blue hair.

"Esther, right?" He inquires of my manager, sticking out a hand for her to shake. She does so, and nods with a pleasant smile.

"I didn't expect you to be so-" She stops mid sentence.

"Short?" The small man finishes for her, letting out a loud cackle of a laugh. "Don't worry, I get that a lot with people I haven't met in person- I'm told I have a big personality, so I guess that transfers to people's expectations for my height"

Esther blushes, an uncommon sight for me to see, but does not deny that it's his height that surprised her. "Have you briefed.." She asks, still withholding the name of whomever the other person I'm to be meeting is.

"Yes, he's all up to date, aside from the obvious reveal," his eyes flick over to me. "Tyler, by the way. Lovely to meet you."

"Likewise," I reply, shaking his preferred hand. "I feel as if I've seen you somewhere before.. Your name's familiar as well."

"I'm sure it is," Tyler laughs. "See you soon."

With that, he re-enters room 206 and Esther opens the door to 208. Euan holds it for me as I follow her, shutting it behind himself. "I thought they said 207 at the desk?" I ask my friend.

"Yes, but we'll be meeting the other involved party in there in a while. Euan, could you maybe wait outside for this portion of the meeting?".

"Of course ma'am." He acquiesces, doing as she says.

"Es, you're worrying me with all this cloak and dagger shit. Just spit it out and tell me why you've had me flown into England." I sigh, frustrated by the whole affair.

"I assume you know about the current political situations over here, Scott?".

"I can't say I do, other than the obvious gay marriage bill. Even that I know next to nothing other than there's a vote on it next year." I admit

"Okay then, I guess a contextual briefing is in order," She says with a long-suffering sigh, as if I should have been avidly following the politics of a country I only come to once or twice a year for tour. "Basically, there are two major political parties as well as a couple of smaller ones, but I'll focus on the big fish: The PFP -the People For the People- party are the good cops in this equation. Of course they have their flaws- it's politics, but most importantly they are pushing the ruling to make same-sex marriage legal," She stops to take a water bottle from her bag and take a long drink from it.

Seeing the opportunity to butt in and voice my confusion, I do so. "Yes, that's wonderful and all, but why does that affect me unless I plan on moving to England any time soon?"

She shifts in her seat, coughs nervously, then continues as if I haven't said a word. "And on the opposite end of the scale, there's the God's Word party, normally abbreviated to GW. A group of fanatical Christians, they're complaining against same-sex marriage, giving Christianity a bad rep and, unfortunately for the LGBTQA+ community, many seem to be listening to them. The age range of fifty-five to dead in this country seem to be mostly homophobes."

"But wait," I interrupt, "Aren't youth voters the majority in England? I remember seeing an article about that show up on my Twitter feed a while ago."

"Did you read it?" She inquires.

"Well, no, but-"

"Exactly. If you'd read it, you'd have learned that it was probably actually written to complain about the non-existent proportion of young people who actually vote unless it's for Scott Hoying to win some internet-based award." Esther explains before drinking more of her water. I notice that her hands are shaking -she's obviously very nervous about something- and her eyes are shining with anger at the voting situation over here.

"I'm sorry?" I say hesitantly, wondering if she wants an apology for how my fans spend their time.

"Don't apologise,Scott, it isn't your fault," I guess she doesn't then, "But you can do something pretty major to help, and it'll come with the added benefit of making the world stop thinking you're a homophobe. Win-win situation, though I obviously didn't know about the future yelling of slurs when I was planning this."

"You want me to come out?" I ask her, "Because I've been thinking that I should-"

"Well yes, I guess that is definitely part of this," She laughs, a hint of nervous hysteria in the sound. "Just picture this, Scott. The teenage demographic has a new 'OTP' as they so call it; wouldn't they do anything to help the future of their favourite couple?"

I nod. "Yes, I've seen the fans do some pretty crazy shit to 'keep the ship sailing'. It's kinda scary just how interested they are in the continuation of someone else's relationship."

"Well, hypothetically, two of pop's hottest superstars announce that they've fallen madly in love but decided to keep it quiet until things got very serious. You know that for these young people, the next best thing to dating one of two unattainable celebrities is for them to date each other, right?" Esther pauses while I nod in agreement. "So, if the only way for them to help their two idols -with a combined fan base of thirteen million in England alone- to achieve their happily ever after was to vote for the same-sex marriage bill, what exactly do you think would happen, come voting day?"

"They'd come running to vote," I reply "Even though a large portion of the 13 million you mentioned would be under 18, there would still be a great deal more voters from the youth demographic."

"So you agree that something like this could be vital to the equal rights situation here in England?" Esther questions, smiling at me now.

"Well yes, of course but who the hell would have that kind of fan base over here?" I ask, confused.

"Scott Hoying, you are a smart guy but also the biggest idiot I know," She tells me good-naturedly with a roll of her eyes and a fond smile. "You, you doofus. You do."

"You think I should do this, this marriage thing? I don't want to marry some stranger, Es." I say hesitantly.

"No, not actually get married," She hastens to correct me. "An engagement, fake of course, taking place during the run-up to the election and the subsequent vote for/against same-sex marriage bill. Then you can break it off once the bill is passed, whether it be a quiet mutual breakup or a massively angry affair."

"I think I could do that Es, if you really do think it would help equal rights over here. I need to come out anyway and what better way to do it?" Her blinding smile when I say that would be worth it alone. It's a massive thing to undertake, but if it does all the good she's preaching, how could I refuse.

Obviously, this is what had been stressing her out. Not just my manager, she's one of my closest friends and I can't bear to see her like that. She's happy now, though, and I want to keep it that way.

"Wait," I say, suddenly remembering something crucial to this arrangement. "You said _two_ pop superstars. Who's the other one?"

"Keep in mind that this will gain massive amounts of publicity for both of you and for same-sex marriage, and your rivalry will only serve in your favour. The masses will no doubt fall for the hate-turned-love romance." She rambles, nervously stalling. I always know when she's putting something off.

"Esther, tell me. Who is it?"

Again, she shifts in her seat, her eyes flitting around the room to avoid meeting mine.

"You're not going to like this, but please keep thinking of the big picture."

" _Esther!_ "

"Okay, fine. Do you promise to still sign the contract?"

"Yes." I hope I don't regret so readily agreeing.

"Mitch Grassi."

_I regret so readily agreeing._

"Well, Scott, let's go meet your fiancé." Esther says, trying to make me smile with an overly excited voice.

"Fuck. My. Life." I say in response. "You know we hate each other, right?"

"Yes, Hoying, you've told me on at least 517 separate occasions." She stands up as she replies and I begrudgingly do the same.

"Right then, let's go," I say, copying her faux-happiness. "What could possibly go wrong?"

_Everything._


	5. Four

[Mitch]

“Well, at least my assumptions about his sexuality weren’t unfounded after all.” I point out with a dry laugh. 

“That’s all you have to say? Out of the two of you, I expected you to be the one to throw a hissy fit.” Tyler admits. “Why aren’t you screaming at me?”

“Oh believe me, I want to,” I reply truthfully. “But what exactly do expect me to do, cry about how unfair life is and how hard it is to be a millionaire?”

“Honestly?” Tyler asks, drawing out the word “Yes, that’s exactly what I expected.”

He’s right that I want to simultaneously scream, bawl my eyes out and start throwing glass objects at nearby walls. I probably will do the first two when I get back to my hotel room, minus the glass-smashing because even  _ I  _ am not that much of a diva.

“Glad to know you think so highly of me, Ty, what kind of person would I be if I decided not to vitally aid the English equal rights movement over something as petty as a high school rivalry gone sour?”

“Pretty shitty”

“Exactly”

The door opens and my security guard Owen moves quickly to block the entrance at the sight of a tall man I’ve never seen before. Tyler evidently has as he placates Owen, telling him “That’s Euan, Hoying’s security.”

Hoying. It’s as if that dreaded surname had yet to fully sink in until now. The heavy weight of dread settles in my stomach making me feel mildly sick.

“They’re ready for you in room 207.” Owen tells me after conversing quietly with Euan for twenty seconds or so.

“Wonderful” I reply sarcastically. Tyler rolls his eyes at me and I stick my tongue out in response.

At most times, Tyler is more of a brother to me than a manager. Only four years older than me, he’s a graduate of AEAA (the school Kirstie and I went to in London), but a theatre student rather than on a vocal scholarship like Kirstie and I.

He used to help out the theatre teacher with musical productions, which is how we first met. Ty was incredibly impressed with me landing the lead role of Elphaba in the production of Wicked despite being male and younger than most of those auditioning. Seven years along the line and he’s my manager.

“Good to meet you, Mr Grassi,” Euan says to me as we depart room 206. “ Euan MacMhuircheartaich, though I tend to stick to my first name for obvious reasons. Old Scottish surname.”

I laugh, liking this Euan guy already. “Please feel free to call me Mitch, then. I’m afraid we’ll be spending quite a lot of time together over the next year or so, no offense to you of course.”

“None taken; I’m aware that you and Mr Hoying have a history.” He nods gruffly, opening the door for me and Tyler. “Owen and I will wait out here”

Entering room 207, I see pretty much the last person I’d like to be around at all, let alone basically every day for the best part of two years.

Or- as he’s also known- my new fiance. Wonderful.

“Honey, I’m home!” I squeal, running into the room. “ _ So  _ wonderful to see you again.”

“You’re going to have to work on your acting before pretending to be engaged on live television” Said the woman sat next to Scott. “Esther Kaplan, by the way, lovely to meet you.”

“Kaplan” I repeat, “You’re not related to-”

“Avi? Yes, I’m his older sister. And before you get that look in your eyes, he’s very straight and you are very engaged to Scott Hoying” She cuts me off, laughing.

“Hey! I was actually thinking about how much I want to collaborate with him; our voices are perfect opposites and all that” I protest. “Though he’s gorgeous, you’re not wrong on that account.”

“In that case, I’m sure Scott and I can sort something out,” She looks over at the tall blonde whom I’ve been avoiding acknowledging. “Right, Scott?”

“Yeah, sure.” He agrees half-heartedly.

“Right, onwards.” Tyler chirps enthusiastically. “Do you have the paperwork, Esther?”

“I did, but then I spilt orange juice on it while it was in my bag,” She admits, looking contrite. “I’ll go print off another copy.”

“Mitch, you and Scott can read over your set together. Esther, I’ll come help you!” Tyler says all in a rush, hurrying to follow Esther out of the door as she leaves.

“Subtle way to leave us alone together.” Scott remarks.

“Do you really need to talk right now?” I reply, still not looking him in the eye.

“Okay, okay! Jeez, let’s just read through the damn contract in silence.” 

Scott stands up and moves to sit in Tyler’s vacated seat. It’s a miracle just how much space he takes up in comparison to my slim figure.

“Silence sounds  _ wonderful _ .”

“Fine,” He assents. Barely a minute later, said silence is broken. “Wait, we have to fucking  _ live  _ together?”

“What?” I respond in shock. “Here,” He points out the particular passage from the several page long contract.

_ ‘You will be required to live with Mr Hoying in a new apartment in Central London purchased for this specific purpose. There are two bedrooms, though one is to be specifically referred to as a guest bedroom when with company or during interviews and such events.’ _

_ “ _ Great, not only do I have to pretend to be in love with you, we also have to share a kitchen, bathroom and general living space.” I huff, pointing to the floor plan of the apartment which Tyler has attached to the contract with a lime green paperclip.

“Pass me that pen, would you?”  

He does so asking “Why?” as he hands it over. 

“I need to sign this damn thing before I change my mind and run screaming out of this cramped room.” I explain.

“Probably wise,” He agrees as I scrawl my signature onto three different dotted lines, sealing my fate with a plain black biro. “I should do the same when Es gets back or I’ll spontaneously combust up in here.”

“If you expect me to refrain from choking you in front of millions of people, please never say ‘Up in here’ when we’re being interviewed.” 

He is so annoying.

“Kinky” He retorts, a stupid smirk on his stupid face. I’m going to fucking kill him.

Luckily for the both of us, Esther and Tyler make a reappearance, though they manage to sit down on the other side of the table before Scott can get the hell away from me and go back to his previous seat. 

I fix Tyler with my best death glare, and he smiles sweetly.

“Here you go,” Esther tells Scott and he grabs the pen i just used for my contract to sign his own. We even use the same pen to tie our lives together, how utterly adorable. Relationship goals!

“Okay,” Tyler speaks after a short period of blissful silence. “Let’s run over the basics so you two can get started with moving in together. Your families and up to two of your closest friends are allowed to know as long as they sign confidentiality agreements. Do either of you have anyone you definitely need to know outside of your family?”

“Kirstie,” I reply immediately. “Only her, anyone else would get too confusing.”

At this, Tyler nods approvingly. “I already have an agreement drafted for you to take over to her, Mitch. She was a given.” He admits, handing over a pile of paper all held together with another of his token vibrant paperclips, this time in hot pink.

I smile appreciatively, taking them from his and carefully putting them in my bag.

“Is Avi already accounted for?” Scott questions Esther, who nods with an expression of surprise that he even felt the need to ask. 

“In that case, just Troye.”

“He lives nearby, right? Esther queries.

“Yeah, just a couple of blocks away actually” The blonde affirms. “If you print out the contract then I’ll go round while Mitch visits Kirstie, whenever that is.”

It’s so weird that we’re already planning our lives around each other. Who’d have predicted Scott Hoying to schedule things according to my calendar?

“Your stuff - clothes and your stupid collection of hats - has been flown in and are already at the apartment, but you’ll have to go buy furniture and suchlike,” Esther informs Scott, who sighs at the prospect. “It’ll be a great opportunity for you and Mitch to be seen in public together, now that I think about it.”

Ugh. However, I can’t deny that me shopping for furniture with Scott will at least hopefully stop him making hideous choices. He’s never had much of an eye for design as is evident in the background of vlogs I’ve seen from his YouTube channel. Kirstie forced me to watch a few with her to see how our old high-school nemesis was doing for himself. Animal print  _ everywhere _ is all I’ll say on the topic. 

“Sounds delightful,” I remark in a monotone. “Nothing could light up my afternoon quite like a shopping trip with the love of my life.”

“Can’t wait, babe,” Scott retorts.

“Well you don’t need to, because we’re done here for now!” Esther announces. “I’ve texted your new address to both of your cells, so you’re good to head back there after you’ve finished shopping.”

“What about the papers for Troye?” I ask before Scott can do so.

“Oh, they’re printed. You can pick them up at reception on your way out,” she explains.

“But how-”

“Airprint.”

“Then why did you two need to leave earlier?”

“Time to go, places to be!” Tyler tells us in lieu of a proper answer.

Huffing in over exaggerated annoyance, Scott stands up, smoothing down the creases on his shirt as he waits for me to do the same. I hold out a hand and he pulls me up, his gargantuan hand engulfing mine. Instead of letting go as I so desperately want to, I carry on holding onto him, linking my fingers with his.

At his confused expression, I remark “Might as well get started with this whole charade sooner rather than later, honeybee.”

“Can we stop with the ridiculous pet names?”

“No, sweetheart, we can’t,” I say with a saccharine smile. At least I’ve found something which annoys him.

When we get to the lobby, the pretty receptionist rushes to go get the papers for us, though thankfully Scott has already picked them up by the time she reaches the printer. She pouts, but the expression is soon replaced by one of shock as her gaze falls upon our intertwined hands.

“W-what?” she stutters, looking from Scott to me and then back to Scott. I want to laugh at her hilarious confusion, but I just about manage not to.

“Ready to go, Petal?” I question innocently, all the while smiling at the receptionist. She shakes her head as if to clear it, but gives up on trying to make sense of the situation when I press a kiss to Scott’s cheek and pull him away.

The second we’re both inside the cab, I let go of him with a shudder. Physical contact for an extended period of time with him is something I know I’ll have to get used to, but it’s a less than welcome prospect. Scott Hoying is a man who I wouldn’t normally willingly go within 100 feet of, and somehow I’m to convince the general public that I’m madly in love with the bastard.

I shoot Kirstie a text reading  _ ‘u would not BELIEVE the meeting i’ve just had. I’d tell all but u have to sign a confidentiality thing 1st. txt me when ur free to sign some papers xo’ _ . 

Knowing she’s on a date day with Jeremy, I don’t expect a reply any time soon, so I go to put my phone away before halting to open up Twitter. Nothing will cheer me up, other than the currently absent Miss Maldonado, quite like interacting with my followers.

_ “In a cab ride for about 20 mins loves! #askmitch ? x _ ” I tweet out, and the responses come flooding in.

_ @mxtchgrxssi101: #askmitch where r u going?? _

_ @mitchgrassi: @mxtchgrxssi101 i’m sure u’ll find out pretty soon, boo! #checktheheadlines _

_ @grassigrassXO: #askmitch any song recs for me bb? love u sm <3 _

_ @mitchgrassi: @grassigrassXO yes!! i’m adoring “normality” by @scotthoying atm _

That tweet seems to cause a great deal of chaos among my fans, and rightly so. To go from subtweeting him angrily to recommending his music is admittedly quite a leap. Our barely veiled animosity has been a popular topic for years, ever since both of us became well-known and people found out that we have a history dating back to our school days.

Our high school has been lauded as a ‘veritable well of talent,’ as literally  _ five _ of us from the same tiny class have successful music careers. Kirstie and I first made it big over here in England, Scott and Avi in America along with Kevin Olusola who went viral instead of the slow buildup the other four of us experienced. I don’t know him too well, I must admit, but that’ll soon change when he comes over here for a month to collaborate with me and a few other UK artists in January - it’s December, currently.

_ @hoyingftmitchie: #askmitch how are you 2day? X _

_ @mitchgrassi: @hoyingftmitchie gr8 thanks! love ur username btw - cute!! _

_ @bbyboyhoying: #askmitch when r u gonna fight scott again?? my tl is boring af _

_ @mitchgrassi: @bbyboyhoying omg lol _

After about three more replies, I stop because the entire tag has evolved to my fans tweeting me pictures of my face photoshopped onto various types of rat.

“Why are your fans all tweeting me again; what did you do this time?” Scott asks me. I jump - it’s been awhile since either of us spoke aloud. In my pleasant Twitter immersion, I’d almost forgotten my location.

“Nothing bad, don’t you worry your million dollar head over it.”

He flinches for some reason. Raising an eyebrow questioningly, all I get as an excuse is him shrugging it off with a dismissive “Nothing.”

I leave it at that, as it isn’t as if I really care that much at all.

About to continue tweeting, I’m halted by our arrival at the furniture store. “Time to be in love,snookums.” I exclaim, grabbing his hand and relishing in the scowl he directs my way in response to the pet name.

“Wonderful.” He replies unconvincingly. I hope his acting is better in public or we’re royally fucked, for lack of a better expression.

Slightly mollified by the fact that Scott has rushed to open my door, I step out only to be faced with a tidal wave of reporters.

As I learnt to do many a year ago, I smile at the cameras so I at least look good in the papers.

“Ready, babe?” I ask him, trying my best to look at the giant of a man as if he’s my world. Hopefully my efforts are somewhat effective.

When I meet his eyes as he nods, I’m amazed at the way he’s looking at me.                                  It’s as if he’s an entirely different person who’s in love with me.

He’s smiling wide and unabashedly, wrapping an arm around me to guide my small frame through the vulturous paparazzi. 

As they all yell questions in our direction and shove to get their cameras as close to us as possible, I link the fingers of my left hand through his right where it rests on my chest.

“Are you dating Scott Hoying?” one woman, who has managed to weasel her way in to as close as Owen will allow, asks me. In place of a proper answer, I wink at the camera she’s holding. It’s obviously recording, and I blow it a parting kiss as Owen and Euan finally manage to get us into the building.

“Sorry about this,” Scott apologizes sincerely to the shop worker who comes rushing to greet us. “I hope we don’t cause too much of a disruption.”

“Not at all, Mr. Hoying, Mr. Grassi, not at all,” she answers us. “How can I help you?”

“Well,” I wink conspiratorially. “Don’t tell a soul, but this handsome man and I are moving in together.”

“Oh my gosh!” she squeaks, lapsing from her professional tone and clapping her hands over her mouth in an adorable display of surprise. “That’s so cute, I’m so happy; you two are my favorite singers.”

“Thank you so much!” Scott responds with a wide smile which I can tell is real. “And as to what we need, I think I’ll let Mitchie here lead the way; I know I’m hopeless with interior design.”

_ Thank God. _

“It’s good you realise that, honey,” I tease, laughing along with the assistant. “What’s your name, by the way?” I ask her.

“Oh, me? I’m Carissa.” She looks shocked that I’ve asked for her name. Perhaps she’s more used to rude customers who treat her like scum. I decide to go the extra mile towards making her feel comfortable while Scott and I are furniture-hunting.

“Oh, before I forget and feel like a douche: this is Euan, and Owen, security guards for myself and Mitch,” Scott introduces. “Will it be you showing us around, Carissa?”

“If you’d like it to be…” she trails off, looking hopeful and smiling brilliantly when we both nod at once.  “Then yes, where to first?”

Over the next three hours, searching the store from top to bottom for the perfect furniture, Scott and I get to know Carissa pretty well. She’s married to a gorgeous man named Michael, and they both have exquisite voices with not nearly enough YouTube subscribers. They’re trying to make a living over here until they can support themselves on music alone, something I’m appalled hasn’t yet come to be.

Honestly, even without the beauty of her voice Carissa would still be stunning. She brushed that off when I told her earlier, but she’s model material. Before we leave, I ask for her number and she types it into my phone contacts. Though I don’t want to give her false hope if my idea comes to nothing, Carissa’s slim figure would be  _ perfect _ for a clothing design I’ve been toying with.

“Ready to face the hordes, honey bee?” I ask Scott, and he sighs dramatically before nodding in resignation, making Carissa laugh prettily. “And, Carissa?”

“Yes?” She rushes to my side in ‘sales-assistant’ mode.

“Here,” I give her a card. “Phone this guy and tell him I sent you. I make no promises, but name-dropping will at least get him to listen to your demos. You deserve bigger and better than working in a shop, even if it is a very nice one.”

“W-what?” she stammers, stuttering and stumbling over her words, a dainty hand raising to cover her mouth in shock.

“I’m just saying,” Scott adds, “I’d definitely buy your album.”

With that, we say our goodbyes and leave the store. Euan and Owen have evidently called for reinforcement, as four more bulky men are waiting just outside to keep the crowd away. There’s more paparazzi than usual, presumably because Scott and I together are  _ big _ news, to say the least. Remembering the cameras, I make sure to bring more attention to our intertwined hands by swinging them together between us. It works, the flashes intensify, even more so when Scott opens the car door for me one handedly. I pull him after me, giggling forcedly when he falls on top of me, a mess of long limbs and blonde hair.

The moment the doors are closed and the heavily tinted windows are up, we separate hastily, though not enough to make the driver suspicious. He glances back through the partition when we stop at a red light, and presumably sees how nervous I look as I think of how easily a cab driver could expose us both.

“You seem worried, Mr. Grassi,” he notes, chuckling heartily to himself as if that was an excellent joke. “Don’t you worry, I’m your new personal driver, so I’m filled in on this whole business. Me and my mate Ern will be taking you to wherever you so please; I’m assigned to you and Ern to Mr. Hoying. I’m Bob, by the way,”

“That’s relieving,” I mouth. “I don’t have to act like I tolerate you when we’re driving places  _ babe _ , isn’t that just swell?”

Scott grunts noncommittally, making Bill laugh again. Bill is a man who seems to be in his late fifties, with a belly swelled by excessive beer consumption and a ruddy-cheeked face which contrasts starkly with his white shirt, over which he wears a deep purple waistcoat. He’s no wedding ring, a fact I note when my gaze falls to his hands where they rest on the steering wheel.

“I’ll leave you two to bicker,” he jokes, pressing a button which closes the partition. Looking over at Scott, I see him engrossed in his phone, texting someone, Troye presumably. I pull out my own when it buzzes against my thigh. 

_ Kirstie: omg confidentiality w h a t ?! _

_ Mitch: sis you are gonna flip ur shit i cant wait _

_ Kirstie: Jer called into work, u free to catch up ?? _

_ Mitch: our place? _

_ Kirstie: i’ll make the coffee, u bring the contract _

_ Mitch: it’s a date! _

_ Kirstie: sorry mitch i don’t like u like that _

_ Mitch: </3 i will pine for u for evermore _

_ Kirstie: see u in 10 ? _

_ Mitch: yep !! _

“Bill?” I say, and the partition opens. “Can you please turn at this exit to drop me off outside my flat?”

_ Though I suppose it’s just Kirstie’s, now. _

“Sure thing, mate,” he agrees, his Cockney accent nearly comical to my American ears.

A minute later, sighing heavily, I step out of the car, ready to explain this whole debacle to my closest friend.

 


End file.
